


Tailgunner

by roxymissrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Childhood Sexual Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:12:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>some people are born soldiers, some are made into soldiers</p><p>originally posted 6-22-2007</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tailgunner

**Part One**

They were arguing again but he was used to that. They made a lot of noise so he spent a lot of time blocking it out, and keeping Sandy quiet. Daniel knew how mad it made Daddy for Sandy to cry even though they were screaming at each other and how Daddy heard Sandy over the noise he never knew. Daddy always seemed to know when he was crying too, so he was pretty good at not doing it.

His brother was in bed with him, curled close to his chest. Daniel put his hands over Sandy’s ears but he was fast asleep. It was probably because noise was familiar, and these nights weren’t so bad for him. He always played with Sandy when their parents fought. Peek-a-boo, but quietly, and One Two Three. That was a game he made up, they counted fingers, and Sandy loved playing it. 

The argument got louder and louder, and he heard his Mommy’s voice—high, weird—she was saying, no, no, in a way that made his stomach twist. For a second he felt like he was going to throw up, but then all the noise went away, it was quiet again. Dan breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe this was the end for tonight. Tomorrow, everyone would be quiet again and pretend nothing happened. Daddy would go to work without a word and Mommy would make them breakfast and look at Dan like somehow, this was all his fault…and maybe. Maybe it was. Maybe he was doing something that was upsetting Daddy. Or Mommy. 

He tried to remember what he’d done that day—he’d had breakfast, and washed the dishes and wiped the table and Mommy gave Sandy a bath while he did that. Then they watched TV while Mommy talked on the phone to her friend and cried a little. He did a good job keeping Sandy quiet, and giving him his snack, Mommy said so. Then before they were supposed to have dinner, he’d taken Sandy outside, and sat on the porch with him, played patty-cake and held his hands so he could walk up and down the sidewalk—just kept Sandy occupied until the sun finally started to dip.

Almost all the afternoon warmth had gone from the concrete under his butt before they'd come back inside, and Daddy hadn’t come home yet. Dinner had turned cold and greasy on the stove and Mommy had been sound asleep on the couch. He remembered that her face was wet, and that it made him feel bad, it always made him feel bad when she cried. He'd thought maybe if he took care of the baby, she’d feel better, so he fed Sandy and himself, and then got Sandy ready for bed. 

He’d just got Sandy in his crib and was just crawling into bed himself when he’d heard the front door open. He’d held his breath and waited—it was pretty quiet, he could hear the news on the TV, and Daddy’s boots clumping across the living room and he’d started to relax, the breath he’d held eased out, and then Mommy’d started yelling, and Daddy yelled back. He’d felt his heart sink—and that’s when everything started. He’d climbed out of bed, and got Sandy out of his crib without startling him too much—he’d smiled when Dan picked him up.

He’d laid Sandy in his bed, and closed the bedroom door. He’d pushed against the wall, and shoved a pillow under one side of him, and settled his brother on his chest. Sighed, and was glad when Sandy had dropped right back to sleep. And that had been that, until the noise got too loud to ignore.

 

All this noise and fighting…he tried his best all the time to push it out of his mind. But then his Mommy made a sound that was kind of like…when Daddy took him hunting and shot a rabbit. Mommy sounded like that, like the rabbit. High pitched…and then it cut off. Quiet.

He lay still for a while, and just listened to the small sounds Sandy made. His round head was a warm weight on his shoulder, and the warm pressure of him on his chest was making him finally fall asleep. The smell of milk and skin was comforting…

 

He opened his eyes. The air was thick; it smelled like campfires and charred hamburgers. It was foggy in the room, and the air was getting hot and smoky—like getting too close to the campfire. For a confused moment, he thought that maybe they were camping like they did once before and then he saw the blue walls, the cookie monster poster….

He slid Sandy carefully onto the bed and ran for the door, but the knob wouldn’t turn, and he wondered if it was locked. Had he locked it by mistake?

He pulled, and there was resistance and then the door opened and Daddy was looking at him.  
Maybe it was his Daddy. Maybe it wasn’t. The eyes…the eyes were blank and flat, like doll’s eyes. No, this couldn’t be his Daddy. This thing was looking at him with no recognition, no feeling, no nothing—

It felt like a long, long time that it was like that…Daddy staring at him as the door slowly eased closed again….

He hung on the knob, tried to pull back, tried to speak but he couldn’t open his mouth. He couldn’t say ‘let us out’…Dan would never forget what it had been like to look at Dad at that moment. It was like looking into a deep, deep hole, a black, deep hole. He thought _‘Daddy’s gone,’_ and then his Daddy snapped back to life behind his eyes and was looking down at him.

Flames filled the hall, and his Daddy said,"Go get your brother.”

He did that and Daddy took Sandy from him, looked down the hall at the fire. Dan grabbed Daddy's arm, pulled on his sleeve, and then, slowly, slowly, Daddy handed him the baby back."Go out on the lawn. Now.”

Dan grabbed Sandy and ran, ran so fast—out of the house and ended up sitting on the lawn, Sandy screaming in his lap, watching their house burn down. He cried—his mommy was in the house and the house was on fire. Firemen and police men were holding Daddy back—it looked like he was trying to run into the house and that was strange, and he was crying, and that was weird too, because Daddy hadn’t cried in the house at all.

+

People in the town were nice to him. Mommy was dead, that’s what Daddy said, and other people said so too.

Daddy took care of them now. He made them breakfast and dinner. In the mornings, he dropped them off at the house of one of the ladies in town, Mrs. Dorn. They watched TV, and Sandy sat in a playpen, and they had to be quiet and they were good at that so it was no problem. He helped; he washed dishes like at home, and changed diapers and fed Sandy so it was really not too bad. Mrs. Dorn talked to the TV a lot, but it was just a lot of boring grown-ups doing boring things, so he colored in coloring books most of the time he wasn’t playing with Sandy.

Daddy was sad a lot, and mad, but it was a different mad than before. He was mad at—everything. Himself. The world. Them…his job, his boss…just. Everything. 

The house was burned, so they couldn’t live in it, that’s what Daddy said. Mrs. Dorn said the insurance company would pay to fix it, and they could live in it again, but Dan was pretty sure he didn’t want to live there again. Every time he closed his eyes to sleep, he heard his mom make that rabbit sound, and smelled the bad, bad smell of burning meat….

 

They moved to an apartment over a bar. Dan thought it might have been a bad idea.

Daddy started to talk a lot to himself. And reading, he was reading a lot of books, there were books all over the apartment and they were scary, full of pictures of monsters and scary things, and even the writing was spooky in some of them. Dad would read aloud from some of them, and he wrote in notebooks, and he would drink. He had notebooks stacked up with the books. There were so many of them, so many.

Dan didn’t know what Daddy was doing, but it wasn’t something he thought a lot about. He was used to ignoring what grown-ups did, more and more he felt that was for the best.

By the time summer rolled around, Daddy had moved them a couple of times. This time now, they live in a little house on a busy street full of other little houses like theirs. This house was the best place they’ve lived in yet. It was a cheerful bright yellow, with white shutters and a small white porch. Window boxes are nailed to the railing. He hoped that maybe if Dad thought he was being good, he’d let him plant some flowers, like Mommy used to do.

Even though taking care of Sandy had become his full time job, and he wasn’t allowed out of the house or to answer the door or the phone when Daddy wasn’t home, he really liked being there. There was a yard, and a sandbox, and when Dad was home he had permission to play outside with his army men, and play with the other kids on the street.

+

Sandy was sound asleep in his crib; Daddy was at work at the garage in the center of town. Dan had decided that this day was so fine that this once, just this once, he’d break the rules. Just once. He decided to eat lunch outside. He sat on the porch step of the little yellow house, and watched the neighborhood kids race up and down the street on their bikes. The sun blazed in the sky, heating the black tee shirt he was wearing, making the concrete hot, making the air smell like dust and dry grass. He could smell the street, hot tar and gas from passing cars. The air rang with the sound of kid’s voices, yelling and laughing. He really liked living there.

Lunch was rolls of bologna and big plastic cup of grape Kool-Aid. Later maybe Daddy would buy some bread…Dan gnawed on the lunchmeat and watched the kids and wished he could have a bike too, he wished that he could run around with the other kids, but if he couldn’t do that, at least he could watch them….

When Daddy came home, he was sitting on the couch, windows and door locked and Sandy on his lap, watching an old movie with three funny guys who poked each other and made weird noise all the time. 

His dad looked at the screen and laughed; he came around the couch and sat next to him. Daddy smelled a little like wet pennies, and Dan could see black in the creases of his hands when he took Sandy from him.

+

He was sound asleep dreaming that he had a bike and Sandy had one too, and Sandy was big, as big as him and they were riding down the street and it was sunny in front of them but dark and stormy behind them, a wind was kicking up thick swells of dust and trash danced on the swells….

“Dan! Wake up!”

Dan shot up in bed, horrified. Had he done something wrong, was something wrong with Sandy? 

It was his dad, hanging over the bed, wet-faced, his eyes were puffy and red."Wake up Dan; I have to tell you something. Explain something."He pulled at Dan until he got up and he followed as his dad shuffled out to the kitchen. He could smell liquor, sharp and sweet in the humid air, and beer…Daddy sat at the table and told Dan to sit too. 

“I didn’t kill your mother,"he said and Dan felt like he’d been dipped in ice water. It had never occurred to Dan that this was a possibility until that very moment—as soon as Daddy said it, Dan knew he’d done it. His daddy had killed his mommy.

“I didn’t kill your mother,"Daddy repeated,"but I know what did."He pulled a book from the chair next to him under and dropped it in the center of the table. Dan made out Malleus Maleficarum on the cover. He could string together the letters but not make sense of it—but it was one of Daddy’s new books, the ones he didn’t like much, with scary letters and scarier pictures. 

“There are things on the edge of our sight, boy, things that live right on the edge. If you turn your head, you’ll forever catch them moving away right on the edge, right on the edge…there are things that smile and wear the face of a lover or a friend and they are neither, boy and you have to have the strength and courage to destroy these abominations…"His daddy’s voice was low and dry, like he needed water. Tears ran down his cheeks, dripped from his chin and splashed on the table."Things exist out there, son. Things that want to hurt you, and enjoy the hurting. Things that will suck the soul from you and feast on your flesh."Daddy looked up from wherever his thoughts had taken him and stabbed Dan with his eyes."I’m telling you this because I’m trying to protect you and I need your help to do that."His dad looked ragged and pale, the color of American cheese. Dan noticed that he was too skinny and too dirty to be his daddy. This man was…some one he didn’t know. 

Daddy looked at him, the tears in his eyes making them shiny. His breath rattled in his throat and he made claws from his hands and held the book. Dan felt like screaming. The black circles around his daddy’s eyes made the glassy red of them frightening. Dan felt alone, unprotected. He knew he and Sandy weren’t safe anymore.

No more sound disturbed the thick dead air except the heavy slow drip of the faucet, the sound the drips made as they hit the stainless steel sink. They sat still and silent under the blue-white bulb that lit the kitchen and when Dan moved his head, he saw _them,_ out of the corner of his eyes, he saw them dash into the dark outside the circle of light."They’ll get you boy. If you don’t watch all the time, they’ll get you…dressed in the skin of people you know, or wearing their own blasted faces….”

Dan knew about demons and monsters. Oh yes. He has seen monsters. He stared at Daddy. Yes. He knew that they hid in people. He believed in monsters whole-heartedly. Dan tried to speak, tried once or twice before he could get words to form."Sandy—we have to protect him.”

Daddy just looked at him. His face was frozen like a mask, nothing moved but his lips."…Sandy?"Daddy’s eyes were flat, shiny, like the sun hitting a tin can."Sandy."He licked his lips, and his tongue looked too pale, white and puffy."You. You look out for him, son. He’s your responsibility. You do whatever you have to…"Daddy stood and wandered around the kitchen, checking locks. He reached into the cabinet and did something weird. Dan watched him open-mouthed.

Dad took the blue box of salt out and opened the little silver spout and carefully as Dan used to draw a line before it got easy, Daddy poured a straight line of salt along the windowsill, and then walked to the doorway, and drew a line of salt along the threshold. He was saying something under his breath.

He turned to Dan and said,"Never, ever, disturb the line. Understand? _Don’t_ break the line." When Dan nodded, Daddy said,"Good, go to bed.”

That was all. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched little Sandy sleep. Counted the lines the bars of the crib threw over his body. He thought, _‘I know I have to be good, and I have to be strong. To protect my brother against anything. Anyone.’_

+

One day Daddy came home and told Dan pack."Pack everything—no, pack the important things. We’re leaving."

“But I like it here; I don’t want to leave—”

Daddy whipped around and slapped him, slapped him so hard that he felt like bees were stinging him all over, under his skin and in his ears."Do it now. Pack.”

Dan knew not to make noise but he couldn’t help crying. He threw clothes in a suitcase and stuffed all the books and toys that the plastic garbage bag Daddy gave him could hold. It wasn’t very much.

Daddy walked into the bedroom and stared down at Sandy. He just stood, looking at him, not speaking not moving, not breathing. Daddy must have hurt himself at work. There was blood on his ear, and his neck and on his hands. There was so much Dan could smell it, that wet penny—iron smell, and he shivered. It felt like a warning, something was telling him, get used to the smell….

Dad whispered,"They wear the faces of friends. They speak in the voices of loved ones and they tell you terrible things. They make you love them and then—"His hand went over Sandy’s face, covering his open eyes, and smiling mouth. Dan reached past his dad, carefully moved his hand away from Sandy's face, and took the baby."We’re ready, Daddy."

The monster left Daddy’s face and he nodded. 

Dan didn’t know why Daddy had to tell him about the monsters that hide. He’d known about them since Mommy died.

+

Daddy was reading a paper that had a picture of his garage on the front page. There were pictures of people next to the pictures of the garage.

 _‘Four dead’_ the headline read. Dan was proud that he’d taught himself to read. He read the headline out loud. 

Dad turned to him."They’re liars, children of the Prince of Lies, remember that.”

They were in a motel room far, far away from where the little yellow house was. 

Dad had put them in the car that night, the night he told Dan to pack, and he'd driven all night, all day. They’d left the car somewhere far away and Daddy took another car, a dark blue car that had smelled like old bread and dirty clothes. After that it was another car, and then another, and now they were somewhere he didn’t know. All he knew was that it was a very small room, and it was dark and the sheets were damp and smelled. 

Daddy sat him on a chair in the little bathroom and cut his hair. When he finished, Daddy made Dan repeat a few sentences over and over. Dan watched Daddy, watched his eyes, his mouth, saw how flat Daddy's eyes were again. _“Say it, boy._ Say it again.”

"My name is Dean. My brother’s name is Sammy. My name is Dean; my brother’s name is Sammy. My name is Dean; my brother’s name is Sammy.”

**Part two**

They were down for the night, and Dad was heading out. He thought he’d caught sight of some shape-shifters up on the edge of the camping grounds. Dean had managed to beg off of this assignment. Sammy had a pretty bad cold. It was all in his chest and Dean was worried. Dad actually looked concerned himself, and agreed. 

The last time they’d had an assignment, it was a possession. Dad had fought hard, trying to throw the demon out of the young girl, but the thing had been too strong, and never gave up its hold on the girl, riding her right down into death. Dad had been shaken, just torn to bits by her death. He’d dropped to his knees in the blood and held Dean and cried into his shoulder, so sorry and heartbroken that he hadn’t released her, but like he explained later, it was still a victory, the demon was dead. 

Dean wrapped his arms around Dad, looked back over his shoulder. The girl had been pretty—before the exorcism. So smooth and soft, so pretty she was almost shiny. Her hair was blonde and long. Dean wondered what it would feel like. He tried not to remember how she’d screamed and begged Dad not to hurt her, how confused and terrorized she’d seemed, he tried instead to hold the image of her ponytail, high on her head, and how it had bounced and swung as she clambered down the trail….

He felt it later that night, all that golden hair, when he and Dad buried the girl under a stand of pine trees. In the dark, under the acid glow of the full moon, and no one to see her go but an owl spreading it’s wings above them, they dug the grave and burned her in it, tossed sulfur and salt and St. John’s Wort in the flames. Dad made him recite words of holding in, and then they’d down the road some and washed off the blood in a small pond off the trail. The dark water had been ass-freezing cold—he’d shivered and shook, his teeth chattered wildly but they’d been chattering before he got in the icy water.

When they were dry and dressed again, when they were in the car, Dad wrapped him in an old blanket they kept in the back. Dad told him he was so proud of him. Told him their work was important. It was Just. Godly. 

Dean thought again of the golden hair falling through his fingers when they'd tossed her in the hole. It hadn’t felt as nice as he’d thought it would. Sammy’s hair felt nicer, warm and soft and…alive. Dean sighed and sat a little lower in the seat. He buckled up when Dad put the car in drive and then closed his eyes.

Dean was twelve and had helped his dad put five demons down. He’d helped him torture out the demon, and then helped cleanse the bodies. He’d helped him put down three shape shifters.

Dean watched his dad carefully and never left Sammy alone.

+

Fire….

Dean kept the fire going in the cabin, and watched Sammy copy his lesson out in a new notebook his dad brought. 

They taught themselves to read. They taught themselves to write and to reason. No one told them what they could or couldn’t read, so they read everything. They had no TV, no radio, so they read all the time. They studied the books Dad brought them, math and science and literature and art…demonology and magic and werewolves and vampires. Eclectic. It was an eclectic education. 

The boys spent days, months together, sometimes not seeing any other person, not talking to anyone except each other. They were the only people they knew besides Dad. And Dean had given Sammy strict instructions, ever since he could walk, to stay out of Dad’s way. Keep quiet; avoid him if you could and if you couldn’t be as unnoticeable as you could. Don’t draw his attention.

Dean remembered, a long time ago, in a room in Ohio…Sammy crawling across the brown carpet and pulling himself up on Dad’s knee and laughing, and Dad looking at him from eyes set a million miles away. Dean had snatched him up and laid him on the bed, stared back at Dad for what felt like a long, long time. Dean had understood then that Sammy might not ever be as safe as he was.

He knew he’d have to watch out for his brother.

+

Light filtered through the trees, speckling the gloom with bright checks and dashes of light. Birds kept up a steady chatter, calling each other, arguing in the branches high above the boys' heads. The crunch of twigs and pine needles under foot was a pleasant sound, punctuated by Sammy’s chatter—almost as constant as that of the birds. Heat released the smell of pine from the broken needles, and Dean could smell the distinct scentl of his brother—hay, sweat, raspberries…he concentrated on the trail.

Sammy ran ahead on the trail, Dean caught up with him, in time to help him over a fallen tree's trunk. Dean had Sam’s hand in his as the two of them looked up at the same time—stopped. In front of them was a circle, a magical patch of lawn, lit by beams of golden light. Flowers dotted lilac and white across the velvety green…diamond bright dust motes and tiny winged things danced in the beams pouring through the trees ringing the lawn….

“Wow," Sammy said, in reverent tones. 

“Yeah," Dean said, almost as awed as his brother. "Pretty damn cool.”

“This has to be where good things happen, Dean. It’s a magic circle. Look, angels are sending light down to let us know its magic.”  
.  
Dean snorted silently, but nodded when his brother looked his way. He didn’t see any point to telling Sam there was no such thing as angels and heaven and magic and Big Daddy in the sky. He didn’t have the heart, not when his brother believed so hard, believed like a saint. Sammy _knew_ they were on the side of the angels, that Dad did the work he’d been called to. Dean would never do anything to destroy Sammy’s faith. Their lives were hellish enough. Let him have what he could for as long as he could.

 

They played in the ring of light all day; they played that Peter Pan and his Lost Boys lived there in the magic circle, Robinson Crusoe found his man Friday there, The World’s Finest forged a friendship there.

 

It was deep evening before they finally returned to the cabin. They discussed what to make for dinner, and picked blackberries along the way. "If we get enough, we can make a cobbler," Dean said.

Sam looked up at him, his eyes round and glowing. "Really? Great! Let me help!" He whipped off his shirt, and the two of them filled the tee-shirt with all the berries they could find.

“You get to work the pump," he told Sam, and when he wanted to make a face, Dean reminded Sammy that it would be Dean who brought the heavy, water filled buckets indoors. "We'll need to fill the tub tonight, too. You need a bath.”

Sammy was outraged, "I just had one! Monday, I had a bath!”

“Today is Friday, and you’re creaking, you’re so dirty." Sammy stuck his tongue out and Dean pretended to grab it, chased him all the way back to the cabin, and the woods rang with Sammy’s high, shrill, laughter.

+

Dad came home that night. He stood in the cabin door, and his eyes were wide and dark, they glanced around the room, taking everything in.

The floor was swept, a fire was burning in the stove, dinner was made, dessert cooling on the table. Lamps were lit, and Sammy sat on a pillow in a big Adirondack chair, skin still pink from scrubbing and his hair curling wet around his neck. He closed the book he was reading at the sound of the door opening and looked up at his dad.

Dean walked out from the single bedroom he and Sam shared, pulling on clean pajamas. They were clinging to where he was still wet from the bath. He looked over at the doorway. "Hi.”

His dad looked tired. He looked around the room, frowning. "You boys…okay? Food hold out?”

Dean nodded. "Yeah. We’re good.”

“Okay. I’m going to…wash up. There water?

“Not hot water. I dumped the dirty water, but didn’t put a kettle on yet." He jerked his chin at the huge copper tea pot sitting on a metal table near the stove. "Want me to fill it, Dad?”

“Nah. Go to bed, Dean.”

He lay in bed, and listened. Dad bathed, and then made coffee. He heard his feet shuffling across the wooden floor, and the creak as he sat on the couch. There was silence for so long that Dean was almost asleep before he heard the muffled sound of crying. He pulled his blanket higher, and pulled Sammy closer to him, and fell asleep with the rabbit quick beat of Sam’s heart against his chest.

+

For Sammy’s twelfth birthday, he got a gun.

Dean wasn’t as excited as Sammy was, even though he knew it was coming. He knew the day was coming soon that Dad would take Sammy on hunts as well…some small part of him hoped that Dad would keep on ignoring Sam, but he was old enough now. "Ready to join the fight, Sammy,"Dad had said, and handed him the box. There was a gun and a cleaning kit. Sam already was an old hand at cleaning the guns, keeping the knives edged. He knew how to load a shotgun shell with salt or silver flechettes, make protection runes…the kid was more than eager to do good, just like his dad. Dean’s stomach curdled and twisted any time they practiced shooting, or trained.

+

Dean stood behind Sam, positioned him for the shot. Sammy’s back was to him, his arm lay straight along Dean’s. He moved it, and Sammy’s hold wavered…"Lock your arm, Sammy," he murmured in his ear."…straight. There you go. Good boy." He slid a leg between Sam’s and tapped his instep. Dean's leg rested against the inside of Sam's thigh for a moment…he imagined an answering pressure and a wave of warmth flooded him. Dean swallowed, and shook his head to clear it. "Move your legs…wider, ‘bout shoulder width, Sam. Yeah, good. Okay—breathe—pull."

The shots hit one after the other in the middle of the target, just where they should. Dean let out his own breath, and smiled, looped an arm across Sammy’s chest. "Good job, kiddo." He could feel Sammy’s whole body smile right through his skin.

He took the gun back, and checked to make sure it was empty, and Sammy asked. "When do I get to stop dry firing it?"

"When I’m sure you’re not gonna shoot my balls off—and when Dad says so," he sighed. "When you need to." Dean made Sammy follow safe procedure, drilling it into him until it became second nature. They threw knives at Huey, the wooden plank painted with a smile and googly eyes, until lunch time and then Dean cleaned up the cabin while Sammy cooked lunch. It was a routine—one they followed without deviation. After lunch, they did what they wanted, but before it was study, weapons practice, a little martial arts—what Dad taught them. 

It was maybe an odd way of life, but Dean thought it was okay. He had a vague sort of knowledge that other people’s lives weren’t like this, but it was hard to imagine living any other way. He had everything he needed, and mostly that was Sam. Sammy always sensed when Dean’s mood was turning. He’d be right there, with a joke or a smile, a hug, a kiss…Dean shrugged uncomfortably at the thought of Sam kissing him, rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. Thinking of Sam kissing him…somehow it seemed different. Was becoming different. Sometimes when Dean thought about Sam's soft, fleeting kisses, he got...a little hard. It was happening more often when Sam touched him at night, when he rolled over to Dean's side of the bed, or flopped his long legs and arms over him. Dean knew getting hard wasn’t supposed to be a big deal…it’d never been one before. It was just a thing that happened to guys. Dad said so, it was natural and normal…it was just…sometimes now, he sought the feeling out. He touched Sam on purpose to feel that way. 

It made him feel guilty and it made him feel good. He felt kind of…trapped between the two feelings, and there was no one he could talk to about it. He felt really lonely sometimes, really lonely.

+

"So you mean…the way people live in some books…you mean normal like that? ‘Cause that could be anyone.…or maybe you mean like Harry Potter?" Sammy looked thoughtful. "Well…some people could live like that. They _are_ witches—”

“No, no, not like that, I mean like. Like…hmm. You know Harry Potter’s not real, Sam." Dean was beginning to wish he’d never brought up the subject. Sammy had the most oddball way of looking at things. He should have known better than to ask him if he wished he’d lived a normal life. 

“Sure—"Sammy agreed, but not very convincingly, "—but isn’t his story kind of symbolic of a hunter’s life? The way Harry’s rejected by ‘normal’ people, and then he finds a family that’s like him and accepts him—you know, Hogwarts. Dean, I _know_ there are other hunters out there—we just haven’t met them yet. When we do, they’ll seem like family, I bet. Still…you have to be careful, you know? Just because someone seems like they’re part of the family doesn’t make them good. Look at Draco. Evil can hide in plain sight Dean, it can look beautiful.”

Dean lifted and eyebrow. "Been thinking about it, have you?”

Sammy grinned and blushed. "A little," he laughed. "I wonder why Dad won’t look for other hunters?”

Dean had his suspicions but he kept them to himself.

+

Dean looked out the window towards the back of the cabin. Dad was wandering back and forth, looked like he was talking to himself. He’d been drinking all day—weeping on and off. Came in from a hunt the night before and looked like something a bear vomited up—bloody and bruised from head to toe, reeking of copper and burnt herbs. Dad was off, totally off, and Dean was worried. If Dad was falling apart, he didn’t know what he could do, how he could help Sammy.

Dean took Sammy into the bedroom, and told him that Dad would be fine, but to stay out of his way…keep quiet and wait until he fell asleep. Even Sammy understood at times like this, Dad was someone else….

They went to bed—Dad was off in the woods, and Dean was bone-tired, exhausted from being on edge all day. He was groggy, desperate for sleep. Dean trusted that Dad would be too drunk to notice he hadn’t gone through all the little rituals he was under orders to do, and Sammy was sound asleep, trusting that he had done them. He curled up on the mattress next to his brother, in little nest of blankets he always made and dropped off to sleep.

 

“Dean…”

Dean woke up almost at once; awake but not alert—awake enough to know it was Dad who was shaking him gently. 

“Dean, get up—quietly.”

Dean got up, barely aware he was moving. Dad took him by the elbow and led him out to the living area of the cabin. The only light was the fire dancing in the stove. In the semi-dark, he tripped over something on the floor, a blanket, or a sheet…

“C’mere," Dad whispered and Dean smelled alcohol, smelled it in his sweat, and fresh, sharp on his breath. His hands were on him, hot, rough, damp, skimming off his sweats…

“Wha…Dad, what…"His words felt mushy in his mouth and he could hardly keep his eyes open. He yawned, and yawned again. "Dad…your clothes….”

“Shhh.”

Dad made him lay face down on the floor, and Dean’s heart sped up painfully. Something was wrong, he just didn’t know what. Dad lay over him and wrapped a callused hand around his mouth, squeezed hard. Dean felt like he was covered in darkness. Dad was too hot, and too heavy, and stuck in places, slid in others."Shh," Dad whispered in his ear. "I’m not going to hurt you," he said, but he did.

 

Morning came, and even though it was just dawn, the sun barely up, the air was already humid and sticky and he felt dirty. He ached, the cabin was stuffy—it felt like the air was clinging to him, sticking in his pores. 

He made breakfast for Sammy and woke him; Sam's skin was sticky under his touch. Hot.

“Where’s Dad?" Sammy asked, his wild mane of hair sticking up every which way, his eyes sticky at the corners from sleep. 

Dean shrugged. "Not sure, he left before I woke up.”

Sammy nodded, used to disappearances like that. He rubbed his eyes, and seemed to actually see Dean for the first time. "Hey, your mouth is bleeding—in the corner there." He reached out to touch it and Dean grabbed his hand and forced it back. "Don't.”

“Ow, you’re hurting me, Dean!”

He snatched his hand back. "Shit, I’m sorry Sammy, sorry." He hugged him, for so long that Sam got a little huffy. 

“You’re going to smother me—or pop my head off like a dandelion—do you mind?”

Dean laughed a little. "Okay, okay—c’mon, let’s eat.”

He gave Sammy his plate and went outside into the damp air. He headed to the side yard of the cabin, to the water pump. He dragged the big stainless steel bucket over to the pump, and pumped the handle, filled the steel bucket full of water.

The water was icy cold, and he peeled his sticky, damp tee shirt off, soaked it in the water and scrubbed himself clean, right there at the pump. He dropped to his knees and stuck his head into the bucket, held it there until his lungs screamed for air. He whipped his head back, gasping hard, water flew everywhere...one deep breath, and he stood again, headed back to the cabin. Back to his brother.

+

Dad came back late that night, sober and blasted looking. His eyes were deep black wells of pain in his paper white face. He apologized again and again. "I don’t know what happened…I don’t know why. It wasn’t your fault."

Dean stared…he didn’t see why he was supposed to think it was. Dad promised with tears standing in his eyes never, ever again. Dean nodded. He didn’t say anything because there was nothing to say. He believed Dad was sorry, but he wasn’t sure he believed in anything else. He knew only that it made him question himself more…confused his feelings for Sammy even more.

**Part Three**

“Wake up."

Dean woke up at once, opened his eyes and found himself staring into his dad’s eyes. They were wide and clear—too bright. "Dad.”

Dean was moving even as he spoke, shoving his thumbs in the waistband of his sweats. His middle was a hollow aching hole and his mind was as blank as he could make it. It wasn’t so bad anymore.

“Wake Sam up, the time’s right.”

 _Sammy…no. Not Sammy, no, not…_ "No, please, Dad. He thinks you’re a hero, he thinks…”

Dad looked puzzled—annoyed. "What are you talking about, boy? It’s time for Sam to grow up—be a man. There’s a werewolf up on the ridge—not turned yet, but soon. We’re going to get him. Tonight, before he’s too strong." Dad got up from where he crouched on the side of the bed, staring into Dean’s eyes. "Come on," he said, and ran the back of his hand down Dean’s cheek, soft and fleeting like the touch of a bird’s wing, and left their room.

Dean wanted to throw up. He’d much rather by far that Dad take him into the living room instead of lead Sam into hell like a lamb to slaughter….

“Sammy. Sammy…" Dean shook Sam’s arm and Sammy woke with a smile and looped his sleep warm arm around his neck.

“Dean, how come you’re awake," he murmured and pulled him back down. "Come back to sleep." His mouth moved warm and soft against Dean’s neck. Dean shuddered. 

“Hey, kid, wake up. Dad wants to take you out tonight.”

Like a switch being flipped, Sammy came wide awake. "Tonight? Really?" He scrambled out of bed and even in the dark of the bedroom; he could see Sam’s face glowing. "What are we going after? Vampire? Ghoul? Ghost..."He stopped and gaped at Dean. "Not a—a demon? Oh wow, my first night out—”

Dean grabbed his shoulders and gave him a hard shake. "Knock it the fuck off! This isn’t a game—we’re not going out to play ball. People are going to die!”

Sam pulled away. "What's wrong with you? People aren’t going to die, monsters are. We help people. That’s what we do.”

“Jesus God, Sammy—" Dean grabbed him and kissed him, hard, forcing his tongue into Sam’s mouth, biting, sucking at Sam’s lip. He stopped, hands clawed over Sammy’s shoulder. Shook him again." _That’s_ real, hang on to that—no matter what else you feel tonight, that’s the only true thing.”

Sam staggered back when Dean let him go, gulping and wiping his mouth. "Dean!" He swallowed, and yanked at his boxers. "What was that—damn, Dean. Dean…"Sam wound down; too shocked to speak again, his tongue touched his lip over and over.

 

Dean didn’t know himself. At that moment, it had just seemed like the right thing to do—like his last chance and—and grabbing for something before it was lost. “Shit—get dressed. Boots—dark clothes, nothing reflective or bright, okay?" Dean threw himself into the business of preparing, trying to quiet his racing mind, trying to avoid Sam’s eyes."—nothing too baggy or too tight—the navy cargo pants will do. Tuck the tops." Dean turned away and dressed quickly, aware that Sammy watched his every move. Dean tossed him a black blade and jerked his chin towards the doorway. "Let's go.”

Dad was in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette and drinking a mug of coffee. “There’s coffee in the pot, and toast—Dean, don’t let him eat more than a slice or two," he said, and walked outside into the dark.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sammy grab for the pile of toast on the counter. His lip quirked in a smile, before the reality of what was ahead of them killed it. "You heard him, Sport. Curb your appetite.”

“Ha—bet that must be hard for you to follow—hey, how come _you’re_ eating more than toast?"

Dean looked up from his drippy egg and bacon sandwich. "Fuck, I’m used to it. Trust me—you’ll be thankful you didn’t eat much, after." Dean could tell Sammy wanted to wiggle like a puppy from excitement, the bizarre incident in the bedroom already forgotten. Dean sighed.

He remembered the sharp buzz of that excitement, the sure knowledge what they were about to do was Just and Godly—he could hear Dad saying it in his mind, just and godly, always in ten foot tall caps. He used to feel that way too, a million, million years ago. Now, he felt like he was about to go club baby seals. He shivered and dropped the sandwich. "Let’s go, kid.”

+

There was a small cabin, more of a shack, at the bottom of a shallow rise. Chinks in the walls let dim sparks of light out into the darkness—the single window in the rear wall of the cabin was blacked out.

They were at the top of the ridge above the cabin, hidden in the woods. Sammy held the Glock he’d gotten for his birthday the year that he'd turned twelve—finally about to use it. Dean had the sawed off in his hands—watched for a signal from Dad. "Don't fire Sammy; not unless Dad tells you to," he murmured. "No matter what happens, okay?”

Sammy’s eyes were huge and black in the low light. He knew ‘no matter what happens’ was code for ‘even if I’m in trouble, do nothing but what Dad tells you.’ Sam swallowed hard. "Okay," he whispered back.

Dean settled back on his heels and waited. It was different hunting in the woods—not like hunting in the suburbs or the city. In the woods mostly, he felt a little less like a monster, he felt that sides were…even. A little more even. Dean chewed on his lip, and waited…this thing…he was thinking, beginning to think…maybe it was murder.

Maybe…Dad. Dad was....

An owl called and Dean snapped to attention, he dropped back behind Sammy like they’d been doing it for years, making sure they weren’t being tailed, his eyes swiveling around the area as they moved, ready to protect Sam to the best of his ability.

“Where to, Dean?" Another haunting call, and Dean pointed to his left, down the ridge, and pressed his finger against Sam’s mouth. _‘No more talking.’_ Sammy nodded, and moved out with him. They circled wide, and ended up on the edge of the dark yard of the little cabin. Dad was on the opposite side of the yard from him, holding up a crossbow. Dean knew the bolts he carried were silver tipped…"Get ready, Sammy," he breathed—could feel Sammy at his side, taut, alert—

He saw Dad point at Sammy and walk his fingers in the air and Dean shook his head savagely. _‘Nono.’_

Dad pointed at him—aimed the bow at him. Dean squeezed his eyes shut—opened them again. Turned to Sammy. "Take the shotgun, give me the fuckin’ Glock and stay behind me," he whispered harshly.

“No! Dad wants me to go first!”

“It’s too dangerous—shit!" Sammy pushed Dean over and ran light as a feather to the front door of the shack—kicked it open. "No, Sammy—" _You’re just fucking bait to him,_ he wanted to scream but habit and discipline ground into him—beat into him—kept him silent.

Sam flew in the front door; Dad went through the rear window, landed on the floor firing. One bolt went through the man’s shoulder—when he dropped, one black bolt pinned his leg to the wooden floor of the shack.

Screaming went on and on, too much for one throat. 

One corner of the shack was red with blood, and stank of blood and shit and piss…there was something in the corner, something that flopped and screamed at the end of a chain.

The bolt pinned a naked man to the floor, he screamed and screamed, until Dad kicked him in the chest. Dean heard something crack, and the guy shut up finally, lay there coughing and groaning. 

Dad walked over to the screaming thing on the chain and shook his head. Jerked his chin towards the guy pinned to the floor, looked at Dean. "Told you it was a monster, didn’t I?" The thing on the chain shivered, and became a terrified woman. She pushed back moaning and shaking, until the wall stopped her.

The table under the window Dad broke through was covered with normal household tools. They were streaked black and red. The top of the table was covered with a plastic drop cloth, the kind that were maybe a dollar a pack at hardware stores. It glittered wetly in the light of a couple of Coleman lanterns here and there in the single room. A stainless steel tub sat in the opposite corner, filled with clean water. There were hooks on the wall. A suit and white shirt hung from them, on the floor under them sat expensive shoes and socks, a tie and underclothing were folded on top of them. They sat neatly against the clean wall…there was so much red splashed all over, but not there, not where the suit was.

Dean heard a low moan of horror behind him. He didn’t look. Washing blood out of clothes and off weapons was different than standing in the middle of it, still fresh, still hot—and this? It wasn’t even that bad. Dean thought he heard a quiet sob, and did turn then. Sammy was white; the gun in his hand shook. Dean frowned, but Sammy gulped. "It's—it's okay, my finger's not on the trigger.”

Dean nodded and turned back to his dad. "Well?”

“We fix it. We kill the wolf.”

The man on the floor started to laugh. "You can’t hurt me, you can’t touch me. The moon—the moon will protect me, you fuckin’ normals!”

Dad stomped on the guy’s hand and it crunched under his boot. "Not against us, it won’t."

The guy screamed and laughed and Dean kicked him in the head to shut him up. The guy's head bounced against the floor, and Dean kicked him again—knocked him cold. Dad nodded. 

“Good job." He bent and ripped the arrows out of the guy. "Tie him up, Dean.”

Dean swallowed bile. Did what he was told. Pulled rope and tape out of the bag he'd carried in. The man was tied and chained to a chair, thin chains of cheap silver necklaces looped around and around him.

Sammy shuddered, and wiped his hands, the guy’s skin was slick with sweat and blood. "Dad…now what?”

“We wait until the moon is high. The silver will make him weak, hold him in place. We’ll have to find out if he infected any others." He pulled a thin knife from an inside pocket in his jacket. "Go get me that screw driver off the table—bring the pliers too.”

Sammy nodded, swallowed. "Okay, Dad.”

Dean asked about the…the woman? The woman...the victim. The other victim.

“Take care of her." Dad tossed him the buck knife. "Make it quick. She’s infected—she’s covered in bite marks.”

Dean looked over his shoulder; Sammy was staring at the semi-conscious woman, tears in his eyes. Dean hesitated and Sammy said, "She'd thank you for it if she could Dean, she knows what’s going to happen to her if you don’t, right Dad?”

Dad stopped and stared at Sammy, really looked at him, and slowly raised his hand, let it rest on Sammy’s shoulder, Squeezed. "Right, boy. Right.”

Dean crouched next to the woman who'd had the misfortunate to have been captured by a sadist who thought he was a werewolf. She was—had been—pretty. Dean ripped off a piece of duct tape and pressed it over her mouth. Her eyes rolled aimlessly, tracking nothing. Tears ran slowly, down over the tape, dripping over his hand, but Dean was pretty certain it was just a physiological reaction and nothing to do with any emotion at this point. He didn’t think she was capable of that anymore. There were strips of mangled, torn skin on her arms, and burns along her collarbone…one arm was broken, fingers, wrist—all broken—bites, deep, open, and worried at the edges, covered her….

He smoothed the stiff ropes of her hair back from her face and told her over and over it was going to be okay. She didn’t hear him, he knew, but it made him feel better. She was going to die, but not alone, and not with someone getting off on her pain. He closed her eyes, and they stayed closed. He laid a hand on her pitifully thin chest, trying to avoid livid cuts and burns. Her heart beat fast, fast like Sammy’s. He flipped the knife in his hand over and slashed her throat, one cut, deep, neat, and sufficient. A killing stroke. She jerked once, and her head lolled loose over his arm. He tilted her so she bled out on the already deep red floor. He didn’t cry—there was no point. 

A high, bubbling scream distracted him. 

“You fucking bastard, you freak—you wait, you wait, soon you’ll pray for death!”

“You can’t move—you can’t change—the silver binds you, monkshood binds you. And shut the fuck up before you make me shove this screwdriver through your eye." Dad leaned over the guy, and lit a cigarette. "You like to smoke? Looks like it. There’s butts all over the floor over there. You want one?”

The guy shoved back on the chair, making the legs jump and skitter. "Get the fuck off me—"

 _Me_ spiraled up into a high pitched scream when Dad rolled the glowing end of the cigarette over the soft skin behind the guy’s ear. The scream trailed off in a sob. "The moon’s coming up, and when I change…"he shuddered and cried. "I'll kill you all.”

Dean walked over and smacked him, hard as he could. "How does it feel? Hurts, does it, you fucker? How do you think she felt?"

The guy opened a tear gummy eye and snarled. Blood drooled over his lip. "Sheep. Meat. Fuck you, meat.”

Dad took a deep drag of the cigarette, glanced at his watch. "Yeah, well, the moon’s almost up and you’re about done." He pulled a long knife from the scabbard in his boot, and grabbed a handful of the guy’s hair. 

The man threw his head back, and a howl tore out of his throat—he raged and twisted in the chair, and his frantic movement bucked the chair across the floor—he writhed and twisted in his bonds in a horrible, unearthly way, his screams and howls split the night—“help me—help me—it hurts, it hurts so much"—words left him became inarticulate growls and howls, moaning…his head dropped forward, and he was still for a second—and then lunged against the ropes, mouth opened, growling, slobbering, baring his entirely human teeth, snarling his entirely human growls. "You see, you see?" He howled. "Cower, meat! Pray for fast death—"

Dean gaped at the entirely human asshole in the chair and Dad blew the asshole's brains out a second later. Sammy jumped and Dean figured he was the only one who heard the breathy little scream….

“Did you see boys, did you see? Just and Godly, Sam. Just and Godly. He took lives, but he paid with his own—paid with his immortal soul. Dean, you go get the ground ready—remember, salt, sulfur _and_ monkshood. Sam. Pull yourself together, damn it. We don’t have time for this." Dad whirled around and stomped out of the cabin, flinging the remains of the door wide.

Sammy stood, a tall thin statue of a boy, white-faced—so pale his lips were chalk-white. He shuddered once or twice—"Dean..." 

Sam's mouth opened and closed, like a fish out of water and he went from white faced to pale green. Dean jumped up and grabbed him, rushed him out into the clean air, held his head while he threw up, painfully, loud and shaking like a reed in the wind, racked with chills and sweat and—and—

"Did you see, Dean, did you see?" Sam gasped."…you’re probably used to it…" He gagged and drooped forward again, struggled to throw up, but his stomach was empty. "Oh—oh—I’m being such a baby." He fell back against Dean, and Dean was shocked at how cold he was—it was like holding a snowman. His arms curled around Sammy’s thin chest, he covered the thin, chill arms with his own, and pressed his cheek against his brother’s ice-cold one, willing his heat to fill Sam.

“Sammy, Sam…hey, kiddo…what did you see?" Dean asked softly, and held his breath, waited.

Sammy said slowly, "I saw…a monster. I…yes, I saw Dad execute a monster." He sounded positive, louder—sure. 

Dean nodded. "Come on, let’s clean up and get the fuck out of here. _fuckfuckfuckfuck_

+

They lay in darkness in the back seat of the car, music soft on the radio. Sammy was wrapped around him; head shoved so hard under Dean's chin, he could barely breathe. He rubbed little circles on Sam's back, crooned little nonsense words over and over. Sam was wracked with shudders, his teeth chattered on and off. "I know, I know, it’s bad the first time," Dean said. "It’s always bad the first time…" Dean held him tight and tried not to feel anything but concern for Sam.

They pulled off onto some side road, rutted and pockmarked with holes and in such bad repair it was probably seldom used.

Dad shut off the car. "Dean." He got out and walked off to the side. Dean could just make him out in the dark…a match flared and glowed in his dad’s cupped hands briefly.

Dean peeled Sam off of him and said, "Back in a minute, kid." Brushed his lips across his forehead. "Sit tight, okay?”

He met Dad in the dark. His head was down, the cigarette he was smoking hid in his curved hand—hiding the glow. "Listen Dean, you need to keep him together. He’s…taking this harder than you did. He’s got potential, but—" Dad made a face. "He's not…not the same stuff as you and me. I’m not sure that he…" Dad dropped his head to his hands and took a long drag, let smoke boil out of his mouth and nose. "Yeah. He could be dangerous to us." He stared at Dean. "I'm counting on you son. I don’t want anything to happen to Sam. You understand me?”

Dean swallowed against the bitter taste in his mouth. "Yeah, Dad. I hear you. Don’t worry. Sam’ll be just fine. I promise.”

“Good. You do what you have to to keep him in line. Whatever it takes." He glanced at Dean, snuffed the fire between his fingers before dropping the butt. Dean watched him scuff a hole in the sand and bury it…what the fuck? Was he going crazy? Crazier? Because it almost sounded like Dad was telling him…fuck. He must be going nuts.

“The hell are you waiting for, boy? Let’s roll."

Dean walked back to the car, his mind racing. Maybe…maybe, Dad just put Sammy’s life in his hands….again, he thought. The feeling was stronger than ever, filling him, the feeling that he was the only thing standing between Sam and death.

+

After, Dad disappeared for a few weeks and Dean was so fucking grateful.

 

When Dad came home again, he had a shit load of papers, IDs, all excellent counterfeits. They told the story of Dean and Sam Winchester, and their dad, John, who moved frequently around the country. There were school records and shot records and everything they needed to start a new kind of life. Sammy looked confused by it all, but Dean just sighed and made a mental list of what he’d have to toss and what Sammy’d be allowed to take with.

 

**Part Four**

A year since they'd left the cabin, left their life out there…a year since Sammy'd gone on a hunt with them…a good six months since he'd been on one. Dad was calmer, looked less like he was looking at them from the other side of hell. He didn’t know if it was life in the village or…other things, but mostly their life was kind of normal.

He didn't much like school, the kids were annoying, they were dumb and the teachers were fucking boring.

For Sammy, it was different—Sammy opened up, like a flower blooming. He loved school, he made friends—he was doing everything Dean had never had a chance to do, living an almost normal life. And that made him happy, that Sammy was happy, and it broke his heart, that he didn't need him like he used to. This was new, this sharing thing. It was…hard. Real hard.

They had a house in this little village. It was—nice. It was okay. It reminded him of the yellow house they'd lived in, when Sam was a toddler. The galley kitchen had a big window over the sink, looking out to a tiny back yard stuffed with lilac bushes that no one gave a damn about and a tiny strip of neglected garden. Light poured in through two floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, so bright on sunny days it even lit the short windowless hallway connecting the three tiny bedrooms…they had the luxury of their own bedrooms. Their own bedrooms, Dean thought, for the first time ever. Again…that was harder on him than it should be.

He was standing outside Sam's room, looking into the open doorway. His bedroom was just like Dean's. Single bed, hospital corners. One window, with a white roller blind, kept pulled down. One dresser, one lamp, a few books stacked in the corner. No pictures on the wall, no extra pillows on the bed, nothing in the closet that couldn't be packed in a single pilot bag, or tossed in a garbage bag…and under the bed, in a locked box, the things that made them not so average—not normal at all. Sam's room was as clean and spotless and featureless as Dean's.  
As Dad's.

Sammy. Sam, who was out visiting friends, and Dad let him go and Dean just didn't get it…he'd argued and argued with Dad in the beginning, when they'd first landed in the village. He'd tried to point out how this life was fucking Sam up, making him...soft. Making them all soft. Dad seemed to listen but he never agreed. He’d just look at Sam with this…expression, and Dean had to remind himself not to speak, but then, something would happen, like Sam joining the Drama Club at school, or hanging out with strangers or dating…and he’d beg Dad again to leave, take them away….

But it was different now. Sam was living the life of a normal boy and what kind of dick would he be to ruin it for him? 

Dean sat in the living room staring out of the tall windows, not really seeing anything. Maybe it was him. Maybe he was the one with the problem. Maybe, life was finally becoming what it should be and Dad and Sam were happy and he was crazy. Because he _hated_ this life.

He felt alone, tossed aside…that long ago kiss was forgotten, meaningless…to Sam. Dean felt like he had nothing. He was miserable and useless and so fucking empty, and desperate for something to fill him up… so desperate that after a while, he stopped waiting for Dad to come and wake him up. There where nights when the need to be touched, to feel like he was wanted, valued, over-rode self-respect or disgust. He'd break himself a little more and almost feel it was worth it….

+

"Hey, Dean, some friends and I are going to church—I'd really like it if you came with."

"Oh, yeah? Um, I don’t know, Sam. I don’t know any of your friends."

"That's one of the reasons I want you to come—to get to know them. They're good people. The kind of people that we—y'know. Protect."

"Yeah. Well, I don’t know…" Church. Dean felt like screaming, but he just smiled. "Church, hunh? I guess…"

Sam frowned. Dean knew the fact that he wouldn’t join Sam in his nightly prayer, the fact that he sometimes laughed, or got angry when Sam tried to talk to him about God and their place in His plan upset him. "Dean. I’m serious, come with me. It’s a beautiful church, and they say the mass in Latin. Come with, I promise you’ll like it.

Dean frowned himself. "How many times have you gone?" This concept of Sam having a whole separate life from his was difficult. Sammy went to church, he had friends Dean didn't know, did things he had no idea about…"Did you ask Dad?"

Sam threw him a puzzled look. "For what? To go to _church?"_

"Unh, yeah well, you know what he says about monsters hiding behind ordinary faces…and…and stuff." Dean huffed. He sounded lame even to himself. "All right. Shit. But if I don’t like it I'm leaving and I'm not kneeling. Or singing. And I sure as hell am not shaking some stranger's hand."

Sam looked puzzled. "What…oh. Dork."

Dean growled, "Bitch."

Sammy laughed, tossed "eat me over" his shoulder before slamming out of the front door.  
Dean watched him run down the sidewalk, and sighed. "Fuck me. I'm an asshole."

+

Sunday afternoon found him in the only clean button down he possessed, a short-sleeved white shirt, and pressed and laundered jeans. Sam wore nearly the same outfit, they grinned when they saw each other. Both of them wore the shoes they wore when they were on the move, non-descript but clean white sneakers—it was the best they had.

They walked into town together, shoulder to shoulder, their moves a perfect mirror of each other and neither one of them was aware of it—it was just the way they were. Sam talked about everything and nothing, and Dean grunted, nodded and generally swept the roadside in front and behind them with his eyes, noting every movement, every bend of grass or sigh on the wind.

Sam met his friends, and Dean memorized each of their faces without thinking about it. He watched Sammy interact with other kids his age…average kids. Sam laughed and smiled, his eyes sparkled. Dean was stunned. He didn't know Sammy could do that. He wondered if Sam could teach him to. 

Sam and his friends walked into the church and Dean dropped into position behind him—hesitated in the doorway. It felt like…a memory revisited. He was reminded, somewhat eerily, of the cabin they’d lived in their last year in Oregon—pine board walls, the high plaster and timber ceilings. 

The stained glass in the windows cast red shadows on the bleached pine floors and that sent a shiver up his spine, it recalled the night Sam got inducted into the Family Business….

He glanced over at Sam—how was it _he_ didn’t see these things? Because Sammy wasn’t crazy and he was? But then again, Sam believed in Dad…maybe he was kind of crazy. Or saw things Dean didn’t….he sighed and took a deep breath, stepped inside. The church smelled of history, smelled of incense, Christmas season after season of myrrh, frankincense—of plaster and old wood. And people. A lot of people in one place. 

Dean hurried to catch up with Sam and his friends, figured he'd maybe sit behind him, so that Sam could be comfortable with his friends but Sam just waved hello to his friends and sat with Dean. Dean tried not to smile as a hot wave of pleasure shot through him. He scooted over to make room on the bench and when Sam sat so close their legs touched, he grinned wide. Sam elbowed him and rolled his eyes. 

The slight backward tilt of the pew made the wooden seat kind of comfortable, and Dean tried to follow Sammy's lead as he fumbled through the unfamiliar ritual. The only thing he understood was the Latin. When the congregation sang, he could hear Sam—piercing, clear, and sweet as an angel. He closed his eyes and listened…smiled when he heard the faint scratchiness in his voice, the little cracking only he could hear because only he was that in tune with Sam… Dean frowned a little. Yeah. Used to be only him. 

He looked down into the fenced in altar area thing—god spot—whatever—

The priest was reading aloud, his black hair veiling his face as he bent forward, and Dean heard a little sharp intake of breath. He looked at Sam, and Sam looked—alive. Enchanted, enthralled—glowing. His cheeks were pink, his mouth was open just a little and right there in church, Dean wanted to lean over and pull that lower lip into his mouth, suck on it, he remembered how it had rolled slightly, the way it gave under, against the pressure of Dean's teeth, his tongue, how smooth the flesh, how wet it got…

He glanced at the altar, the priest's hands were up and he held a little white circle in his fingers, a trick of the light made it seem almost luminescent. The priest looked upward and Dean's breath caught in his throat. He looked like Sam—not like him, not in terms of face or body—it was the priest's expression. They had the same look—true believer, transfigured, transfixed with joy— the priest believed every word he spoke, his green eyes burned with it, and it was beautiful. 

Tears filled Dean's eyes, and he blinked hard to clear them. Dean glanced at Sam and winced, stabbed by guilt. Sam glanced back, and for the first time in a long time, Dean saw nothing but himself in Sam's eyes, a better him reflected there. He saw what had been taken, from Sammy and maybe from him too.

He shifted along the pew, a little farther away from Sam. Dean felt a twitch deep in his gut, the guilt grew. He felt like shit, but he’d been a little hard from the moment he'd seen Sam's parted lips, his shining eyes, the passion he obviously felt. Dean dropped his eyes and stared at his hands folded over each other on his lap. He felt guilt, and anger for the part of him that wanted to see Sammy look at him like that.

It sucked so bad—here he was, so close to the one thing, the only thing in the whole fucking world, that really mattered to him, and all he could think of was how wrong it was, how guilty it made him feel that it mattered the way it did. Well, he might not be able to stop feeling the way he felt, but he could keep from acting on it, and not because it was a sin—that was bullshit. Stuff Sammy believed in. Dean only knew that wanting this thing made him feel like shit and he wasn't about to do that to Sammy. He loved him too much to force anything on him. Dean swallowed against the suddenly sour taste in his mouth. No one knew better than he did how awful, how disgusting, such a thing could be…

After the service, Sammy told Dean he was going for coffee with his friends and asked if he'd like to come along, but Dean said no—he doubted he could stand to sit with Sam, this Sam who had his arm around the shoulders of a little blonde girl that he looked at with smiles and sparkling eyes and happiness. "Go, have a good time, Sam. Enjoy."

"I'll be back before dark, okay?"

"Whatever, dude." Dean grinned and waved him off and walked back home alone.

+

Dad was packing to leave when he got there. He stood motionless in the kitchen, arms hanging at his sides and watched him. Dean felt completely empty, blank, where usually he'd always felt relief and…hope.

Dad left money on the table—"that should be enough for the month—the rent's been taken care of. Pay the bills when they come in and you guys should be all right."

Dean nodded. He had a job in the automotive department of a local super-store. It paid enough for parts for the Impala he'd bought—the car he and Dad worked on come the weekends, when they pretended to be a normal family. Whatever extras they needed, whatever Sam needed, would come out of Dean's check.

"Well," his dad said, and they stood silently for a moment. Dad reached out one arm to—hug him, or pat him, he wasn't sure—Dean jerked to one side, away from him.

Dad's eyes flared with the look he usually directed at whatever 'monster' needed to be destroyed…

"Dad…" Dean took a step back.

"I'll be home again, in a bit." He stared at him a little longer before shouldering his bag. "Tell your brother I'll see him when I get back."

Dean watched him toss his bag in the truck, watched the truck screech out of the drive and down the road. Dean shivered. Shit. That was a mistake, blowing Dad off like that…damn it. He didn’t need to be psychic to know that was gonna come back to bite him in the ass. 

 

**Part Five**

Dean walked along the main road in town. Milk, cereal, bread, and a couple of candy bars because Sam liked chocolate, weighed down the plastic bags bumping against his legs. He was wincing against the glare of the sun, harsh light bouncing from the white concrete and into his eyes, blinding him. He blinked hard once or twice—stopped and listened closely until he could see again. Habit. 

He heard…he heard Sam's voice. Sam and another person, talking together.

Across a green postage stamp of public land, he caught sight of Sam and the priest talking together; their voices were lower now, too low to be heard. Dean could pick up the distant chug of traffic and the bickering of sparrows, other voices floated in the air but not Sam's. This was a private conversation. He saw how curved in Sam was, bent over his words, how hard the other was listening. More than private—it was a secret conversation. 

Dean's eyes narrowed. 

He wasn't sure he liked that at all.

+

In the evening, they worked quietly together to make dinner. Dean chopped onions and peppers and Sam dumped a can of tomato sauce into a pot.

Sam backed up, letting Dean squeeze in to the stove so he could scrape the onions and peppers into the pot. Dean handed him the cutting board and moved behind Sam. "So what were you talking to Father Patrick about?"

Sam looked surprised, and not at all happy. "You followed me?" He dropped hamburger into the cooking onions, stirred it. He wiped the board down and tossed it onto the table.

"Don’t be stupid. I just happened to catch you…I didn’t try to find you. It's just…here." He handed Sam the salt and pepper.

"Don’t worry. We weren't talking about the—the—what we do. We were just talking." Sam shook the spices into the pot and watched it for a minute. It was obvious that he was avoiding Dean's eyes. "About other kinds of stuff."

"Sam, you know you can talk to me about…about girls, or anything, if you want."

Sam's head jerked up. "Girls? Oh…sure. Thanks. I know that." He blushed hard, and turned back to the stove. "Gimme the spaghetti, the water's boiling."

Dean handed him the spaghetti, and watched Sammy drop it by handfuls into the roiling water, his concentration as complete as if he were…conjuring some spirit or something. Dean leaned against Sam a little. He noticed that he couldn't easily rest his chin on Sam's head anymore; he rested it on his shoulder instead. "So…do you want to talk bout it? Girls, I mean?"

"Um…if you’re asking me do I know about sex, yes, I do. And birth control, and safe sex and everything, okay? I can probably school you, dude." 

Sam smirked, but he was a ferocious red, from forehead down. Dean jerked away, momentarily furious with jealously. Sam probably could…he turned the move into a gentle shove, and managed to laugh. "Bitchface."

Sam ducked his head and grinned. "Yeah—Jerkoff."

+

It was nearly Halloween before Dad came back and this time he brought something with him, something that crawled under his skin, fluttered in his eyes…Dad watched them, but what worried Dean more was that he watched _Sam_ all the time. Out of the corner of his eye, from a distance. With naked speculation on his face, he watched him. Dean circled between the two of them and saw that Sam misunderstood—misread the attention. Sam could be so blind; it really pissed Dean off sometimes. Sam blocked anything he didn't want to see, and it was up to Dean to protect him from his blind spots.

They decorated the house, just like the others in the neighborhood. So what if hidden between the big plastic pumpkins and grinning black cats there were real signs of protection? So what if tucked in the dried stalks of corn were bundles of holly and bay leaves?

So what if Dean watched Sammy do that and just shook his head? Poor fool—so busy protecting them from something that only went bump in the night of a crazy person's mind. What really mattered was the monster on their doorstep; the one Sam really needed protection from. Dean was on the edge all the time. Since he'd come back from the last hunt, all Dad did was drink, silently and steadily. Dean worried. This was not a good sign, this type of drinking just lead to…bad things. Dean was afraid he'd have to do something to head Dad off and he didn't want to but it was for Sam's sake…

Dad sat in the dark and drank and drank. He smelled of alcohol, sweat, the sweet-sour smell of unwashed, uncared for body. Every day, Dad slipped farther and farther away from them, struggling to move in a daze of drink and whatever it was that was dragging him down.

"Something must have gone horribly wrong," Sam whispered to Dean, late at night, when Dad finally passed out. "He must have lost someone; the hunt must have gone wrong …" Sam insisted they had to fix it in some way. He asked Dean what they could do to help and Dean could only shrug. He had his own ideas about what was wrong, and the solution that came to him over and over was the big hunting knife, wrapped in chamois and slid in between his mattress and box spring.

"Listen, Sammy, do me a favor and keep away from him. He'll hurt you if you don't."

Sam's eyes widened in outrage—"Dad would never hurt me. He'd never hurt us." His voice was full of betrayal, and Dean laughed. 

_Sure. Not Dad._

"Oh yeah, he would and has. I'm warning you—begging you—keep away. And…and let me know if he. Touches you. Any kind of way."

"What the fuck? This is beginning to sound like some kind of good touch-bad touch thing here…Dean. Are you okay?" Sam's expression shifted from outrage to worry and…and pity. "Dean, are you mad that Dad finally wants to spend time with me—he loves you, you know that—"

"Jesus. Look. Dad…Dad…does things. Wrong things sometimes. I just. I'm just trying to protect you." As soon as he said it he knew—that was precisely the thing to say to trigger Sam's stubborn streak.

"I don't need you to protect me. You're jealous, or something. You want to make problems—why? Why are you lying?" Sam was angry now, seriously angry, and he had that set to his jaw that promised trouble.

"No, I'm trying to keep you safe—"

"You've always come between me and Dad and now that he's making an effort to get to know me, you make it seem wrong. He's hurting and you're not trying to help. You're sick, Dean. Something's really wrong with you." Sam ran out of the room, and Dean let him, fuck—he could get mad too, damn it. But worst of all, Dean felt hurt, hurt and angry enough to let Sam take off without protection. 

 

When Dean finally did fall asleep that night, he tumbled in and out of dreams—nightmares in which Sam died gruesomely, or killed him in horrible ways, or fucked him—in some of them, Sam and Dad took turns—in every nightmare there was blood and there was fire and death and he screamed and screamed….

Dean jerked awake. 

That—that _was_ a scream—"Sam?" 

He jumped to his feet and ran to Sam's room, found it empty. Dad's room, also empty, and the truck was gone. None of their weapons were gone but that meant nothing, Dad had a hell of a lot of firepower in the truck—he boasted he could practically hold off a small army with just what he had in it.

Dean grabbed Sam's gun, and the knife under his bed, buckled the sawed-off to his hip and still felt he lacked firepower...he looked around wildly before gathering himself— _get a fucking grip, he's just one man—_

He snatched up the keys to the Impala and took off. Once out of the village, he took the roads that led up into the mountains. If something was about to jump off—if it was what he thought it was—then he was pretty sure he knew where Dad was headed. He could see it in his mind, clear as a vision. 

A mile from the cabin they used to live in, he found the truck—doors open and keys still sitting in the ignition. Dad had no plans to come back, Dean could see that, too. 

The cabin's door wide, its rooms empty…there were signs of struggle, blood on the floor, a dusty, torn bed-sheet rumpled up and shoved nearly under the couch…

Dean ran, ran as fast as he could. 

Up on the ridge, he sighted dim flickers of a campfire. He dashed through trees and scrub until he was nearly on a clearing, a small circle of grass surrounded by a natural stockade of thin-trunked trees. The fire was small, the dim flickering light made the underbrush look black, made the tree-tops seem to meet over the circle of black and orange—he could see his dad, he was standing over something crouched on the ground in front of him. Dean's heart stuttered, he drew in a shocked breath—for one terror-struck moment, he thought the thing in the dirt was actually a demon. The thing was his brother. Sam was on his knees, naked, bleeding, his hands tied in front of him. A loop of rope around his neck had him staked out like bait. His eyes over the black smudged duct tape were wide and shocked and betrayed…innocence murdered.

"Dad!" Dean had the shotgun in one hand, Sam's Glock in the other…he shoved the shotgun in the holster, raised Sammy's gun and centered on Dad. The gun wavered—he was afraid, so afraid—not of killing the man— Dean was afraid he might miss....

 

"Dean—you get back, son. I have to do this." There was blood on Dad's shirt, his mouth. His hands were scratched and bleeding, his face, too. Dean experienced a weird feeling of...pride. He'd taught him good—Sammy was a tough little motherfucker.

Dad had an axe in his hand, a little utility axe, and he reached down and dragged Sam's head up with a fist locked in his hair. "Sacrifice...blood for blood. On the road here, it came to me—a voice told me, His voice—He's demanding proof of our conviction, He wants proof that we put the mission above everything." He looked down at Sam, shaking, quivering at his feet. "I explained it to the boy, and he still didn't understand, even after I tried to show him just how much I could love him..." His voice hardened, his eyes glittered like oil in the firelight. "Dean, we need to do this. What you don’t understand it that this boy was never really your brother. He belongs to _them._ He's not my flesh and blood…I know that now."

"Dad, let him go, okay? Let him go, and we'll all go back to the way it was. It'll be better, even. I'll do better, I'll…I'll learn to love it—I—I mean, more than I do now, I swear, I'll make you happy—" Dean babbled on, ignoring Sammy's head jerking in his direction, huge horrified eyes spilling over, tears running over the silver strip of tape. "Or—or take me instead, Dad, take me. My blood—"

Dad dropped the razor sharp edge of the axe across Sam's throat and a few drops of blood spattered the dry ground beneath him.

"No! You crazy murdering sonofa-bitch! Let my brother go! He's the only thing in the world…" Dean's voice caught in his throat and he scrubbed at tears blurring his eyes. "Fuck. All I've ever loved…" He raised the gun, finger tightening on the trigger. "I'll kill you first…"

Dean felt like he was hanging alone in space, surrounded by falling stars and fire, sealed in a bubble empty of time, and death was all around him, and he was about to kill, to protect his brother and he knew it was right, god damn it, the right fucking thing to do—a ferocious joy filled him. From the time he was five years old, he'd known that his life was hostage to a maniac who may or may not believe in what he did. The only thing Dean was certain of was that on that long ago night when the house burned and his mother died, he'd saved Sam and he was going to do it again. Fuck, he'd been doing it all Sam's life. 

Simple.

…and his finger tightened on the trigger. There was a noise, and there was a rip in the world….

 

A black cloud boiled out of the hole torn in the world, right behind Dad, huge and black and reaching arms out in all directions and tendrils roiled out and swept up the blood under Sam and whipped back towards Dad. 

Sam strained back on the tether holding him to the ground and even over the gag, Dean could hear him screaming.

"What—the fuck is going on?" Dean's arms went limp by his sides, finger off the trigger and the gun pointed at the ground…"The fuck?" He dropped the gun, fumbled the shot gun up, pointed at…whatever it was. Hesitated again….

Dad turned to him and screamed, his eyes were full of blackness, his mouth—it took Dean a second to realize the blackness was blood and the smell of it was thick on the air—there were yellow eyes in the cloud, swarming like bees, yellow eyes and mouths, teeth—sharp, sharp teeth. Blood sprayed outward, something thick and wet warm hit him, and Dean could hear Sam screaming but not his dad, not anymore. 

There was something standing in front of them…tall and oily black and maybe scaled, maybe feathered…onyx claws reached for Sammy, and the shot gun whipped up as if it had its own mind. Dean pulled the trigger, realized with a horrible, sick sensation he had the shells loaded with fucking, stupid, worthless, _salt._ Dean screamed and cursed because he'd dropped the fucking Glock, but had held onto the useless shotgun. He pulled the trigger on the shotgun again because he had no idea what else to do. The shells hit it, smacking into it with a sound like a fist hitting dough—and the thing exploded. It shrieked, it clawed the air and then, finally, it blew into shredded rags of black—the smell of burning flesh and sulfur filled his nose and mouth, seared his throat. 

 

Dean coughed and gagged. Through burning, watering eyes, he watched the tear in the world slam shut. Whatever it'd been was fucking gone. Sammy was alive, and he was alive and Dad—Dad—was gone, like he'd never been.

Dean cut Sam loose and tore the gag out of his mouth and Sam shrieked, he screamed, he babbled, "God, Dean, Dean, no, Dean did you see it? It was horrible, it horrible and it killed him…oh God, Dean he's gone…"

Dean tried to navigate through world tipped and shattered. He grabbed Sam up and yanked him away. "Come on, come on, we have to get out of here, now—" _before I lose my mind…._ They stumbled away from the dying fire, tripping and staggering, lost in the dark.

+

They were back in the village; huddled around each other, shaking…Dean dragged Sam into the shower. It was suddenly the most important thing to Dean that Sam be clean, washed free of blood and grime and he knew it was stupid, but he hoped that memories would wash away as well.

Sam was shivering, seemed barely aware that he was in the shower, talking a mile a minute. "I don’t know what kind of demon that was but I'll find out and we'll go after it—Dad was possessed, wasn't he? That's why he—he tried to—" Sam broke out in a fresh wave of shuddering, and Dean held him close, kissed his forehead and his cheek and tried to soothe him.

"Yeah, yeah Sam, he was possessed," and all the while his brain screamed, _'it's real it's real it's…'_ the memory of his dad's completely stunned and disbelieving expression, the—the complete and total shock, the fear— "It'll be okay Sam, we'll be safe. We'll…look for the other hunters." _The ones that have to exist, they have to be out there…somewhere._

Dean led Sam out of the shower and back to his room, grabbed a towel and rubbed him down, grinned a little when Sam protested at being dressed like a little kid. "I'll be back," Dean said, and went to his room, grabbed something to wear. He couldn't be naked around Sam, not tonight. He didn't think ever.

Sam was on the bed, faded boxers riding low, exhaustion making his eyes dark, but he looked more alive when he caught sight of Dean in the doorway. He pulled himself back on the bed to make room and Dean sat next to him, held one cold hand in his, rubbing it, trying to warm him up….

Sam pulled Dean's head to him and kissed him on the mouth. "Thank you for saving my life."

"Okay." He felt light headed and nauseous and dreaded _wished_ Sam would kiss him again…

Sam quickly pulled him down again, mouth hot and insistent against Dean's. He gasped and Sam's tongue pushed inside, brushed all over inside. Dean's eyes fell closed, he opened wider—their tongues slid together, and Dean trembled—the sour taste of blood and bile gave way to something sweet, unique, became the taste of Sam. Dean gathered what shreds of willpower he had left and pushed his brother away, tried to make it forceful. "Don't—"

Sam looked shocked himself; his eyes went wide, scared. Sam's lips trembled, his face fell and he cried. Quietly at first, almost to himself, then louder, harsher, until he was crying so hard the sobs racked him, and scared the hell out of Dean. 

"I was so damn scared," Sam cried, "and Dad—Dad was, he was horrible—I thought I was going to die, I couldn't stop thinking about you, scared I'd never see you again, never tell you that I—"

Dean threw his hands up, about to cover his ears like he did when he was a kid and Mom and Dad screamed ugly things at each other, things he didn't want to hear. "Cut it out, Sam—god damn it…"

Sam had his hand fisted in the material of Dean's shirt, pulled hard enough to tear it. With a frantic, spastic jerk he pulled Dean down on him, "Please, please—love me," and something in Dean exploded—tore out of his heart.

"You think you want that? Want to know what it's like?" He threw Sam to his belly on the bed, ripped the underwear down the back of his legs, leaving red streaks down his back, his calves. He shoved his shower damp legs apart and jammed an elbow in Sam's back when he tried to move. "Shut up, lie still," Dean hissed—hardly recognized his own voice. Sam froze and Dean pushed his legs even farther apart. Sam looked so small, so open and exposed, helpless in the face of so Dean's roiling anger—

Dean's dick had been hard from the moment Sam's tongue brushed his, and he _wanted_ this, wanted to make Sam see that you couldn't throw words like love around like confetti, like it _meant_ something when it didn't, never had, fuck…Dean pressed him open and spit, spit again and saliva rolled down Sam's cleft, collected on the wrinkled hole, and Sam sobbed, once, before going silent and even more still. 

Didn't matter, he didn't care, about nothing, and no one…Dean cursed and jabbed his hips forward, he struggled, lunged again and again, and…he went soft. Was soft since pulling Sam's ass wide. Hurting him.

Sam lay silent, motionless, like a fucking sacrifice. Dean hung over him, and everything he'd been feeling since…if felt like _forever,_ burst violently out of him. He broke open like a puss-filled wound. Crying, apologizing over and over, hurting, so ashamed, all the anger gone and just a huge, aching void left behind.

Sam moved finally when Dean dropped face down on the bed next to him. He buried his face in the pillow, locked his hands over the back of his head and gave in to grief. Sam limped away, and returned with a dripping washcloth, holding it gingerly by the corner. He rolled Dean to his back, and pulled his arms away from his head. "Shhh. Stop. Please." 

He washed Dean awkwardly with the soaking wet cloth, dribbling water everywhere as he talked to Dean, gently, patiently—kindly— until Dean couldn't take it anymore; shame drove him off the bed and racing into the bathroom.

He was on his knees, draped over the toilet bowl, and he gagged and gagged as his stomach tried to empty. Exhaustion caught up to him, he leaned his cheek on the rim and was grateful the bowl was cold against his burning face. Sam stood quietly behind him and waited, and when Dean leaned back from the bowl, led him back to the bed. 

Sam laid him down and straightened his limbs, and wiped his face again with the cooled washcloth. Looked down at him and shook his head—his shaggy hair fell forward to almost cover his eyes, but Dean was watching his mouth, and how it curved upwards, a little.

Sam climbed onto his legs and sat on Dean's thighs. "I forgive you—sometimes you're an asshole—I can deal with that. You okay now?"

He felt tears well up again, but he blinked them back. "Yeah. But I'd feel better if I had more clothes on..." He wrapped his fingers in the waist band of the only clothing he had on—a faded pair of Harley-Davidson shorts—more than likely, some ancient gift to him from Sam.

Sam snorted and pulled the threadbare shorts down, and Dean yelped and started to yank them back up but Sam slapped his hands away. He traced a line down Dean's hip, over the soft curve of his dick." No, you wouldn't feel better. I love you and you love me. That's the way it's always been." He moved his finger again, and Dean's dick filled a little, lifted slightly. "You and me against the world. You keeping me safe. It's even truer now." He drew his finger over the thickening shaft, traced a circle around the ridge. "We need each other," he murmured and stopped moving, shifted his ass across Deans' thighs, and Dean gasped softly. Sam cocked his head and stared down at him. "You know it's true Dean. And we don’t need anyone else. Never will. Never did." 

Dean groaned. Sam's words made him twist inside. His dick was harder now, pressing against Sam's hand, filling it, so that now instead of Sam running his finger over the velvet skin, he stroked him, slow even pulls from root to tip, and Dean gasped with each stroke. "This is wrong, Sam, you know it…" he arched slightly and groaned as Sam breathed a hot gust of air over the head of his dick. "Sam—you know it's not—not—"

Sam smiled. "Are you worrying this is going to send us to Hell? Fuck, Dean—what we do, we were headed there already." He bent his head and kissed along Dean's hard dick. "Think this makes a difference?" he whispered. He pressed his thumb against the slit and pre-come welled up and rolled over his fingers.

Dean shuddered, whined—tried to concentrate on Sam's words and not his actions. "But we kill demons—the bad guys. I think…"

"We do black magic—make spells, spill blood—hell, for the killing alone, we're damned."

Dean laughed, groaned "—so more sin—is just—more sin? No—no big deal?" he gasped and threw his head back, cursed as Sam dragged his tongue up the shaft and over the crown of his dick, licking up the pre-come he spilled. 

Sam sighed and licked his fingers. "Yeah…something like that. Besides, you're not fighting it very hard, are you?" Bent down and captured Dean's dick again, let the head rest in his mouth, and Dean jerked upwards—grabbed Sam's head and tried to push him away.

"I'm going to come; I'm going to come—"

"Not yet, wait, not yet…" Sam scooted forward until he was straddling his chest and ran his hand under Deans' head, supported him. "Suck me, get me wet…"

"Oh god. Oh god…" Dean's dick jerked, he felt closer and closer to coming, but he did what Sam asked, and ignored any thoughts but that this was Sam's dick, hot and thick on his tongue, filling his mouth and he swallowed—Sam grunted and his hips pushed forward. Dean choked when the head hit the back of his throat, and Sam moved away. 

"No! Let me, I'll do better, come back—"

Sam shushed him, and put his hands on Dean's shoulders, laid full length against him and—slid forward. 

"Shit! Mother _fuck!"_ Dean shouted. The explosive shock of lust that shot up his body and filled his brain nearly threw him over the brink. His dick slid against Sam's, and they both shuddered and moaned. Dean reached between them and grabbed both of them and Sam pushed hard, harder, sliding in sweat and precome and spit, his teeth in Dean's shoulder, steadily moaning and crying against his skin… sliding over each other, muscles caught and slid and the feeling of heat and Sam's crazy long legs wrapping around his, and kneeing him in the side and every little spike of pain made his dick jump, pump in his hand. Sam's throbbed, hard, hard enough he felt it on his palm and then Sam moaned in his ear, "I'm gonna come, can't wait—can't hold it—" he dropped his head and watched their dicks strain together, slide in and out of Dean's fist and he looked so shocked—"I'm going to come on you," he said, so precise and clear that Dean looked at him in awe. Sam's mouth fell open into an O and Dean groaned and let go—

The letting go was incredible—it broke out of him like every kind of relief in the world, like rising tide, like exploding suns. Hot thick wet filled his hand and gushed out to land on his belly and then Sam was smearing it all over the two of them, shoving forward and hissing and Dean jerked and tried to come again when he realized he was feeling Sam come, too…

 

A long time later, they woke and cleaned each other up. They sat around in bed, eating dry cereal, drinking cokes, ignoring the sun that was peaking around the corner of the window shade. 

"We have to leave here, you know that," Dean sighed.

Sam nodded and crunched through a handful of some crappy looking Swedish health cereal or whatnot. "I'll miss being here—a lot. But we have a job to do." He looked wistful. "Maybe we can come back some day…"

Dean stared at their knees touching, Sam's foot over his. "Yeah. Maybe your friend Father Tom will still be here." He felt a little hot flash in the center of his chest. "What were you talking to him about—this? That's why we're damned?"

Sam looked shocked. "Hell no—I was talking to him about the other stuff. He told me stuff, gave me advice. Told me he'd pray for us, special…he's going to help us Dean, as much as he can."

Dean nodded. Sam was…he knew how to bleed out a person, how to load and fire a shotgun and what points on a body to hit to make a fucker fold up and squeal like a pig but…naive. The boy was just too trusting.

They gathered together what little they had, and it turned out all they wanted were the weapons and Sam held out for a few books…Dean wondered if it was sad they had nothing but they'd never had nothing so he didn't know if it was or not. They had each other, always had. That's what counted. 

Sam tossed what bags they had in the car, and Dean told him he'd be back—he headed into town. 

The little cabin-like church huddled in the middle of its lawn, neat beds of flowers outlining it. Dean stood out on the sidewalk looking at it for a while, and then someone came up behind him. He pretended he hadn’t noticed.

"Dean Winchester?"

He turned. "Father." 

"Thinking about going to church?" The full red lips turned up in a smile, green eyes danced and Dean thought it was a fucking waste, that mouth, those hands….

"No, Father," Dean smiled. "I'm really not."

"Well, you're honest, that's for sure." Father Tom laughed a little and rocked back on his heels. 

"Yeah." Dean looked up at him. "Speaking of honest, Sam said he talked to you. Said you gave him advice…you believed him?" Dean stared at him, eyes narrowed and watching for the slightest sign of disbelief.

Father Tom exhaled deeply, rubbed a huge hand through his thick hair. He hesitated and then, nodded. "Yes, and I have my own reasons for believing him. I gave him a book, an old book. I think it will help. I want to protect him—just like you do. Because I think he's special, just like you do."

Dean flushed bright red, and turned away from the priest. He wanted to walk away, but a gentle tough on his arm made him stop. 

"Take care of him, he loves you very much, and I can see you do, too. You're touched, chosen, you two…I'm sorry."

Dean nodded. He got that. He walked away without looking back.

 

**Epilogue**

The sky is grey and thick with snow clouds, the sun's glaring down on them but the light it sheds is cold and dim and the air is freezing-ass cold—Dean's teeth are chattering, and the cold's gnawing on every bit of his exposed skin. It's like being flayed with pins…Sam looks like he's almost in tears from the bitter cold, but he smiles grimly when he catches Dean's gaze on him.

They're crouching in a stand of yew a few yards away from a ring of waist-high dark grey stones set in an open field, and snow swirls all around but near the stones…near the stones the snow whirls upwards, the flakes are spinning skyward instead of drifting to the ground…

Dean risks Sam's anger; he stops him and pulls a big heavy dark gray amulet up out of the collar of his jacket. Grins, pats his chest. "Iron, show lots of iron."

"Got you," Sam nods. "We don't want one of them sneaking up on us."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Sneak up on us? I don't think so—those little fuckers smell like a couple of kinds of death."

Sam makes a shushing motion when the wind picks up suddenly. It whips through stalks of unharvested grain with a noise like a pained moan; it runs low across the ground, blowing snow up around their ankles. The stones look like hunched, crouching men. The air around them almost seems to shimmer. The ripples out of nowhere let them know, somewhere out there is an elf…a lot of the sneaky fuckers, and Dean and Sam were there take down anything that broke out of the iron ring….

Sam makes a small circling motion with gloved fingers, and Dean nods, quickly steps in front of Sam, ignoring his sharp annoyed intake of breath. They're both still getting used to Dean taking point. Ever since Dad died, he's taken point—it wasn't comfortable for him, he'd been trained to take the tail gunner's position, was born to it—but as long as he breathed, Sammy was his first priority. He came before everything, including Dean's life. It's always been that way, and Dean figures if he does his job right, it will always be that way.

6-22-2007


End file.
